The Casino Royale
by Friedrickson2
Summary: MI6 Agent James Bond is assigned to the French town of Royale-les-Eaux to beat the terrorist banker and SMERSH agent 'Le Chiffre' in a high-stakes game of baccarat. But can the newly-minted 007 keep his emotions in check, and who can he trust? The first in a series of retellings of various Bond stories, from both book and film. Read on if you're interested or a Bond fan.
1. 00-Status Confirmed

_March 12, 2003_

 _Atlantic City, NJ_

The room in the hotel Mr. Osato was staying in was comfortable. He was especially pleased with it, as he had paid good money for this room. He had told the maids that they were not to come in or go near the door between the hours of 18.00 and 20.00, as he had some business associates coming, and they were going to be discussing something extremely urgent and delicate.

He did not lie to them, as it was true-The meeting was to be carefully handled, or else they would be found out by the C.I.A. or MI6. This was why Mr. Osato had picked this hotel, and this particular city. Atlantic City was famous, but it had run into some tougher times and thus fewer people visited it now. Also, the authorities were more than likely watching the other American cities. So, peace and quiet.

Mr. Osato took off his brown overcoat and Homburg hat, revealing a short, thin man of forty-four with grey hair and a forehead that looked larger than it really was due to his receding hairline. His eyes were a hazel colour and he had a goatee as grey as his hair. He looked like a wealthy business executive, especially in his black tweed three-piece suit and red silk tie with black Doc Marten ankle-high loafers.

Mr. Osato was a rather mid-level member of the Japanese Secret Service, but he had a brother in the New York branch of the Japanese crime syndicate, the Yakuza. He told his superiors that he used his brother as an informant about the underworld, when in reality, Mr. Osato was a member of the Yakuza, and had come here to sell secrets to his brother and several other men.

* * *

At 18.00, he had changed into a black double-breasted suit with purple silk tie and black brogues. In through the door came his brother, dressed simply in dark green tweed suit with blue tie, a middle-aged man in a dark blue suit, and three fellow Yakuza members.

For half an hour, Mr. Osato explained what these secrets were, and their value to both the Japanese and British governments, knowing that this would increase their worth. He saw that everyone present was happy with what he had told them.

"How much are each of you willing to pay for these little floppy disks, gentlemen?" he asked, smiling. "One million dollars," said Osato's brother. "I will pay two million," said another Yakuza man.

"Six lead bullets," said a voice. The criminals looked at one another, surprised, and then looked to where the voice had come from, which was near the bed. The middle-aged man drew his gun, a Smith & Wesson. Cocking it, he pointed at the bed. A man, dressed in a black duffle coat with navy blue jeans, stood up, holding a small gun with skeleton grip.

"Hah," said Mr. Osato, "I didn't expect you, Bond." The man, Bond, stepped from the bed, still holding his gun. "If the high-ups were so sure I was selling them out-they would've sent someone better."

"Yes, but my file has one kill. A Norwegian double-agent who betrayed a teammate of mine, and all it takes are…"

"Seven, Mr. Bond, seven kills. I read about the 00-Section and all their famed killers. I know how many should die." Mr. Osato's smile was long gone now, replaced by a sinister frown. His brother had a Walther P99 aimed at Bond, who simply smiled.

"Do any of you mind if I take out my silencer? I'd hate for the whole hotel to hear us all," asked Bond, as he took out the eponymous device, and screwed it onto the barrel of his gun. Mr. Osato simply waved his hand, silently saying 'yes, do so.'

Bond finished screwing the silencer on, and sat down on the bed. The six men continued to look at him. A long pause ensued, during which Bond noticed that the other three Yakuza men were foolishly unarmed. They would be the easiest to kill, as would Osato.

But first, he had to find a way to kill the other two.

* * *

His eyes went to the only source of light in the room-a lamp on Mr. Osato's desk, and the light from the chandelier hanging above them. He looked up for a moment, then shot at one of the Yakuza men, hitting him straight in the neck, before ducking under the bed and shooting Osato's brother in the right eye. This bullet went through and entered the head of the second Yakuza man. The middle-aged man grabbed his silencer and quickly screwed it on as he went to the bed, only seeing that Bond was smiling at him, hands in the air.

"You've proven your point, Mr. Bond," said the man, "But I don't see you making the famous 00-section. You'll be dead before then." Bond shook his head, still smiling. "Are you sure you're not talking about yourself?" he asked sarcastically before he reached the man's gun, wrestled it out of his hands, and shot him in the head, through the lower jaw and shooting at Yakuza no. 3, hitting him in the heart. He then put the body down and pointed the gun at Mr. Osato.

"Well, I think you'll be glad to know that your country won't really investigate this, or your friends."

Mr. Osato smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. Though may I ask why?"

Bond's face went serious, before saying "Because they'll think it's a murder-suicide. Don't you notice I have gloves?" With that, he fired a shot in between Mr. Osato's eyes, made of lead. He smiled a genuine smile.

He arranged the bodies around and left the Beretta at the scene, walking out the door.

Now, Royal Navy Commander James Bond was no longer a simple MI6 Agent. He was a 00-Agent.

Codename: 007.

* * *

 **AN: The first chapter for my interpretation of Casino Royale, and the first in a series of rewrites of James Bond stories.**

 **James Bond belongs to EON Productions and the family of Ian Fleming.**


	2. The First Assignment of 007

_June 1, 2003_

 _London, UK_

James Bond, codename 007 walked into the Vauxhall building that served as MI6's headquarters, dressed in a grey suit with matching fedora and blue striped tie. He remembered overhearing one day that M, the head of MI6, wasn't particularly fond of the building, as it was 'too exposed and a waste of taxpayers' money'. 007 allowed himself to smile. It wasn't every day that M was saying something that could be considered humorous.

Walking into the elevator, he pressed a button, and the elevator moved up taking him to the floor where M's office was situated. He walked into the room in between the hall and M's office, where the secretary was sitting. She glanced up, stopped typing, took out a phone and said into it, "007 is here, sir." Then 007 walked to the fingerprint scanner next to the door, placed his hand on it, and the door unlocked, signalling that he was allowed walk in.

* * *

M, the head of the Secret Service, was an old man of seventy-three dressed in a black tweed blazer with white hair and a balding scalp. On his desk was permanently situated a bottle of sherry, and near the latest file were his reading-glasses.

Two other people were in the room with M. The first was Bill Tanner, the Chief of Staff. The second was a short woman in her sixties with short hair and a stern face.

"Ah, good morning 007," said M, walking to his desk and grabbing his glasses. "This is Ms. Mansfield; she'll be taking over from me as head of the Service when I retire next year." He gestured to the woman. "Now, I hope you're prepared for this, because this is your first assignment as a 00-, and it is one that is quite important." 007 nodded. "What is it sir, if I may ask?"

M had sat down in the chair and had put on his glasses. "Royale-les-Eaux. Have you ever heard of it, 007?" 007 nodded. "A town in the North of France, just north of Dieppe, and a few miles south of the Bay of Somme. It has had a casino for guests and holidaymakers since the 19th century, and the discovery of springs with enough sulphur for the water to be sold as mineral water has brought some prosperity to the area."

Mansfield, Tanner and M looked at 007 for a brief moment before Tanner took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and gave it to him. "Head of Station S. We received just this morning, 007. We think you may like it."

007 looked at the letter before unfolding it.

* * *

 _To: M._

 _From: Head of S._

 _Subject: A project for the destruction of Monsieur Le Chiffre, a.k.a. 'The Number', 'Herr Nummer', 'Herr Ziffer', etc., paymaster and treasurer of the 'Syndicat des Ouvriers d'Alsace', a Communist-controlled trade union in the transport industries of Alsace, and the reputed private banker for half the world's terrorist organisations._

 _In September 2001, Le Chiffre is believed to have short-sold stock for airline companies and placed large bets, using £30 million entrusted to him by the Al-Qaeda network against them. With 9/11, as other airline stock dropped, his short-sold stock rose and he, Al-Qaeda and his union, as well as the Spang crime syndicate in Nevada, gained huge profits. Around this time, Stations F. and S. collaborated to place a mole into his organisation, the mole being his mistress, who shall merely be identified as '1860'. She has been able to provide a goldmine of information as to his private affairs._

 _As a result of 1860, we have been able to find that Le Chiffre is in the middle of a financial crisis. In January 2002, Le Chiffre, fresh from his success on 9/11, used £30,000,000 to open a series of brothels in Japan and pornographic theatres in France. It is clear that he was tempted by the thought of unlimited women for his own personal use. About three months later, the Japanese government passed a law banning all brothels owned by the one operator, and the police made the moves to shut these brothels, and the French police got wise when a woman reported the theatre to her local department branch._

 _Having been foolish enough to use SODA money, Le Chiffre faced a massive deficit in his union funds. He swiftly sold off his brothels that had not been shut down and has continued to operate a 'cinema bleu' in Cannes, but these attempts to sell his investment, even at a very heavy loss, failed dismally._

 _Any routine inquiries would show a £25 million deficit in the SODA union funds, and barely any remains of his original investment. It was only when the French looked into his finances that they discovered his predicament and the Deuxiéme Bureau gained interest, and immediately informed us._

 _It is however, believed, that SMERSH, the neo-communist counter-intelligence organisation whose name is an acronym of 'Smiert Spionam', or 'Death to Spies', is now on Le Chiffre's scent, as last week it was reported that they were sending a man over to France from Warsaw._

 _In brief, we believe that Le Chiffre plans to win back the union money by gambling. The various illegal narcotics trades are too slow, as is the 'Bourse', and there is not a single race course that could be able to carry the type of stakes he will have to play on, and he would more than likely be killed than paid off if he won._

 _In any case, he has withdrawn around £25,000,000 worth of union funds and is using £10,000,000 of his own money and taken a small villa in the neighbourhood of Royale-les-Eaux (north of Dieppe and south of the Somme's mouth) for a week a fortnight from the 1 June._

 _Now, it is expected that Casino in the town, the Casino Royale, will see some of the highest gambling in Europe this summer. The Société des Bains de Mers de Royale have, in an attempt to wrest the big money away from its larger neighbours Deauville and Le Touquet, as well as from the Riviera, leased the baccarat and the two top chemin-de-fer tables to the Mahomet Ali Syndicate, a group of émigré Egyptian bankers and businessmen, some of whom believed to have ties to organised crime._

 _With the help of discreet publicity, Le Chiffre has collaborated with these businessmen to encourage a considerable number of the biggest gamblers in America and Europe to book at Royale this summer, and it is here that Le Chiffre will, we are confident, endeavour on or after the 15_ _th_ _of June to make a £50 million profit at the baccarat tables, and incidentally, save his life._

 _The proposed counter-operation is such: This man be destroyed and his communist trade union be bankrupted and brought into disrepute, and this potential army in the event of another communist power lose faith and cohesion. All of this would result if Le Chiffre was destroyed at the baccarat tables. Assassination is pointless, and it would be best to bring him in alive, so as to gain information about both SMERSH and his own clients._

 _We therefore recommend that the finest gambler in the Service should be given the necessary amount of funds and try to out-gamble the man. The risks are obvious and the potential loss to the Secret funds is high, but other operations on which large sums of money have been hazarded have had fewer chances of success, often for a smaller objective._

 _Signed: S_

* * *

"What do we know about Monsieur Le Chiffre, sir?" asked 007. M looked up at Bond and began. "The first recorded mention of Le Chiffre is in a Displaced Persons Camp in the former Yugoslavia in 1994. Ethnically, he seems to be a mixture of Albanian, Croatian, Jewish and Corsican descent. He dresses usually in double-breasted suits and has a Benzedrine inhaler."

"He took the name 'Le Chiffre' because, as he said it, he was just a number on a passport. Here's a picture of him, 007," Tanner added, handing 007 a photograph of Le Chiffre. 007 looked at it for a few moments before handing it back to Tanner.

"And where exactly do I come into all this?" asked 007. His three superiors looked at him.

"007, you will be going to the Casino Royale as our man. You're a damn good card player from what we heard from 002 about Monte Carlo," said Mansfield, M pushing the bridge of his glasses ever-so-slightly. "You will be given a necessary amount of money if the Treasury can agree-£10 million, I think, should suffice, and be accompanied by someone from Station S. I requested that it be someone with financial knowledge. Also, we've got the Deuxiéme involved, in case they kick it up rough. They're sending one of their best men there to help you. Mathis-ever heard of him?"

007 smiled and nodded. "Yes sir, I met him in Monte Carlo. We've struck up a bit of an acquaintanceship since then, sir." M nodded and then rose from his seat, walking towards 007. "Look here, 007, you _must_ win. If you lose this game, we will have indirectly funded terrorism."

He then smiled. "Go to the town a few days before the 15th, 007. In the meantime, have a talk to Q about rooms and equipment you may need. And do be careful, Bond."

007 nodded, and that was enough for M. "Good. You may go now, 007."

* * *

Q Branch is a unique part of the British Secret Service, in that it is neither a part of MI6 or MI5, and provides equipment, papers and weapons for agents for both departments. It was, and still is, located in an underground facility in London that was made up of an abandoned Tube tunnel and part of the bunkers from the Second World War.

Bond walked into Q Branch, and was amazed at the latest toys the scientists and engineers were creating for espionage, assassination and sabotage purposes. Among them was a Rolex watch that hid a Geiger counter, and a remote-control phone for a car which was still in the experimental stage and was believed to be fully capable for field work by the end of the next decade.

"Good morning, Q," said Bond to an old man of seventy-four with balding white hair, dressed in a light grey cardigan with white shirt and red tie. Q turned around and said in a matter-of-fact tone "Good morning, 007. Now come with me, will you?" Bond obliged.

"Now, here's your new vehicle, 007-A 1977 Bentley T-1 2-door saloon with four-speed automatic transmission and from us, built-in radar for this magnetic homing device. Nothing else, understand?" The magnetic homing device was a third the size of a ten-year old's pinkie finger's fingernail.

"Interesting, Q. Interesting," said 007 under his breath. Q looked at him seriously. "Twice in the past year, Bond, you have brought back damaged equipment. I want none of that this time. Understand?"

Bond nodded, smirking. "Yes, I do, Q. I do."

"Good. Now, come back next week for your tickets. Your hotel room will have been booked by then, as well as your cover. Now off you go before you destroy anything else here."


	3. Le Chiffre's Creditors Decide His Fate

_June 4, 2003_

 _Berlin, Germany_

The meeting-place was to be a café, at 13.00 sharp. There would be a Caucasian man in a beige double-breasted suit with red striped tie, tied in a Windsor knot, and a brown Homburg hat sitting at the table in the chair farthest from the door.

At 13.00, a middle-aged man with short hair dressed in a dark grey pinstriped suit with black tie and custom shoes walked into the café. He noticed the table in question, walked to the counter, and ordered a sandwich and some tea. After finishing his order, the man turned around and walked to the table, sitting in the chair opposite the man.

The other man was aged forty, and had sandy blonde hair. His lips were feminine, while he had a curved, hooked nose, while his ears were small and round with no lobes. His eyes were a dull grey, and he had thin, spider-like hands.

* * *

"Well, Mr. White?" said this man to the one who had just sat down opposite him. The other man looked at him. "Yes?"

"The banker, Monsieur Le Chiffre has wronged us, and we have only now just discovered it. He used the union money to whore out some girls in brothels, but the bourgeois Japanese government outlawed chain brothels just after he opened them. Now he is to pay for his crimes." He was to the point in his explanation.

"As it happened, we too indirectly helped fund his plans for a brothel chain. My people gave Le Chiffre the money, hoping that it would be used for the SODA union fund, but he ends up opening a brothel chain just as they ban chain brothels," replied Mr. White coldly.

"Hmm, I see. Well, considering that your people and my people are working together, perhaps you should carry out the assassination of Monsieur Le Chiffre?"

Mr. White simply stared at him, his eyes not once showing signs of emotion. Then he nodded.

"If I am to kill Monsieur Le Chiffre, I would like SMERSH to give me his co-ordinates."

"In the town of Royale-les-Eaux, Mr. White. That is where our man is, yes. It's in the north of France, south of the Somme's mouth. You'll know just what he looks like. Here," he said, handing Mr. White a piece of paper. Mr. White then unfolded it and saw a picture of Le Chiffre, taken three years prior.

"My people found out six months ago what he has done. Our leaders voted unanimously to kill him a day later, and we have spent this entire time planning his death to the letter. We arranged for our contacts in the Mahomet Ali syndicate to lease the tables in the Casino Royale, and ensured that Monsieur Le Chiffre got wind of it. Everything I asked you, it was merely to test your own knowledge." Mr. White smirked for a millisecond before his face returned to its usual emotionless scowl.

The other man looked at him for a minute, before he pointed his left finger at him and said, nodding, "You are very intelligent, Mr. White. You could a great SMERSH agent-we need someone like you to bring about a world revolution."

"I worked with the Lord's Resistance Army in Uganda, and the Contras in Central America during the 1980s, Mr. Elbestein. I work with socialist revolutionaries, I work with fascist tyrants. I only see partners, not ideologies," replied Mr. White, blinking for the first time since he sat down.

He added, "We must give him a chance, however. If by the 20th of June he has still not been able to recover the necessary money, then I will kill him. It will give me time to watch him."

Elbestein nodded. "Very well then, Mr. White. I will leave you now, as you clearly have the situation under control for both your people, and for my people."

With that, Mr. Elbestein got up out of his seat and walked out of the café, onto the streets of Berlin. A waitress then came over to Mr. White and handed him his sandwich. He thanked her, gave her a generous €5 tip and as he ate his sandwich, his mind was still at work with regards to Monsieur Le Chiffre.

"Le Chiffre must die. It cannot be in public. That rules out poisoning his drink or food in public, car bombs or sticking a needle in his leg when no-one is looking.

"Furthermore, the Deuxiéme Bureau clearly has interest in him, as Royale-les-Eaux is in the north of France, where he is currently at. It would be most surprising too, if the British Secret Service or the American C.I.A. were not involved in trying to capture him. That is another reason why he must die. If the Americans, the British or the French get a hold of him, then Le Chiffre may start talking about his clients. Then my people would be in deep trouble, as would SMERSH."

He finished his food, paying his bill at the counter, before walking out of the café to the nearby train station. He had a ticket taking him to Munich, then he would fly from there to Strasbourg before driving across France to Royale-les-Eaux. Mr. White had calculated in his head that it would take a total of two days for all this to happen. This would give him plenty of time to watch Le Chiffre.

His train departed from the station an hour later. By the 5th of June, he was in Royale-les-Eaux, in a restaurant, wearing black sunglasses and a grey tweed three-piece suit, watching his target Le Chiffre, waiting patiently like a crocodile to strike.


	4. Arriving in France & Meeting Mathis

_June 8, 2003_

 _Q Branch, London_

James Bond was back in Q-Branch, waiting patiently for Q to show up with his train ticket, passport, and papers for the cover story. He watched, amused, as the scientists and engineers tinkered with a prototype jetpack that was currently spewing smoke. He shook his head slightly, and heard Q walk up beside him.

"That won't be fully operational and ready for the field until 2010, 007. Now come with me," he said, walking into his office. Bond followed, and when he walked in, sat down in an oak chair. "Now, here is your passport. And your train ticket on the Chunnel, for the tenth of June, at 10a.m., straight for Paris. You'll be meeting Mathis there, and stay the night in the Hotel le Royal. We have you booked in to the Hotel Splendide in Royale-les-Eaux, and we expect you to be there before the twelfth. We'll have your vehicle delivered to Paris by the morning of the eleventh. Now, here is your cover passport." Q handed Bond the passport.

"James Fleming, Port Maria, Jamaica," he read out. "Date of birth: January 18, 1974. Sex: Male. Yes, that's good, Q. What about my cover backstory?" The ageing Quartermaster smiled. "Your cover is the son of a sugar exporter, who likes gambling, fine clothes and women, and invests his money on the stock market. You should know that for 00-s, all expenses are paid for by the Service, so don't spend too much."

Bond nodded, and smirked mischievously. Q sighed. "Anyways, if there are inquiries, quote that your attorney is Charles DaSilva of Caffrey's in Kingston. He'll make the story stick for us." Bond nodded again.

"Now, take these and head back to you apartment, pack your clothes and on the tenth, in the morning, head for the Chunnel station."

Bond nodded, took the papers, passport and other necessities and walked out of Q-Branch. When he exited the lift, he saw M waiting for him. He nodded. "Good afternoon, sir," said Bond. M nodded this time. "I must let you know, 007," said M, walking closer to him, "that you _must_ win. If you lose, the money the Treasury gave us for you will go into Le Chiffre's hands, and thus our government will have funded terrorism."

"I...I understand, sir," answered Bond, as he began walking towards the exit. M watched the new 00- leave the safety of Vauxhall and step out into the dangerous world of espionage and kill-or-be-killed. "Good luck to you, Bond," he said quietly to himself, before walking back to his office.

* * *

Bond spent the afternoon at his apartment, searching his wardrobe for clothes he would be bringing with him to France. Eventually, after much consideration, he decided on writing them down and sticking it to his fridge:

-A light grey pinstriped three-piece suit with a lapelled six-button five-hole waistcoat, a dark blue chalk double-breasted suit, a beige two-piece suit and a half-Norfolk jacket

-Four pairs of dress shirts, and two pairs of long-sleeved Guayaberas, as well as a black collared polo shirt, as well as two pairs of jeans-one dark blue, the other pair black

-Several pairs of socks and underwear

-A pair of chocolate brown brogues, a pair of black Oxford shoes and a pair of caramel Venetian loafers.

Satisfied with his choice, Bond took a plain black magnet and placed the note on the fridge, before setting to work putting his clothes into his suitcases. Whenever Bond was on an assignment, even before he was a 00-, he would never bring no more than two suitcases with him.

After having spent an hour sorting and packing his clothes, Bond looked up at the time. 6.00pm. He decided it was time to have dinner.

Going over to the cupboard in the kitchen, he took out some spaghetti and made himself a rather tasty Spaghetti Bolognese, having made the sauce himself. He poured himself another glass of white wine, and then went off to bed.

* * *

When the tenth of June came, Bond was prepared. He had set his alarm for 6.25am. He made himself two scrambled eggs and ate them accompanied by whole-wheat toast with marmalade, and freshly-brewed black coffee for breakfast.

He exited his apartment, carrying both suitcases and wearing a dark green double-breasted suit with blue four-in-hand tie, and called for a taxi. By 9.15am, Bond was at the station, and showed everything to the security, including his Beretta, but they handed it back once they realised that he was cleared to have one. Luckily for him, he got first class.

It was 13.00 hours when he was able to get out of the train station in Paris, and a half-hour before he got to the Hotel de Royal via taxi. The concierge, a short man with medium build and balding red hair, greeted him when he walked up to the reception. "Ah, Monsieur Fleming," he said, his arms out wide. "Shall I take you to your room?" Bond nodded.

The bellboy came to carry his bags and Bond followed him and the concierge to his room, on the second floor. The concierge opened the door with the key and Bond stepped in, and was immediately impressed by how lovely the room looked. The concierge then took out a long piece of paper laminated in plastic.

"This is a list of restaurants in Paris you might enjoy, Monsieur Fleming," he said, before asking, "Do you require anything else?" Bond shook his head, replying " _Non,_ _Monsieur_. _Je suis contente_."

This answer satisfied the concierge, who nodded lightly before handing Bond the key and walking out the door into the hallway. Bond then closed the door after the bellboy had placed his bags on the bed. Bond walked over to the bed. He placed a hand on it. It was just as comfy as the bed at home.

Bond then took out of the first suitcase a gun-a .38 calibre Colt Police Positive Special revolver, fully loaded. Checking it, he then went to his pillow and placed the gun underneath it. He then checked the restaurants before heading to the bathroom. Checking it for bugs, as well as the rest of the hotel room, and finding none, he changed his tie to a dark red four-in-hand, and went for lunch in the hotel's restaurant, where he had a wonderful venison steak with mineral water. Getting back to his room, he twice swept for bugs one more time before turning off the lights and going to bed.

* * *

The next morning, Bond awoke at 7.00am to a series of knocks on his door. He groaned before getting up, putting on the black jeans and his blood-red dressing-gown with dark green floral pattern and walking to the door. "Who is it?" he asked loudly.

The knocks started again, and Bond immediately recognised it as being Morse code.

"R, E, N, E, M, A, T, H, I, S. Rene Mathis," he said to himself, smiling cheekily when he figured it out. He then opened the door to find Mathis in the corridor, wearing a dark purple chalk suit with unbuttoned collar.

"Bonjour, James," he said, smirking. Mathis was about 5 inches shorter than Bond was, and thirteen years older. He had salt-and-pepper hair and had an unshaven face, with a face and complexion that betrayed his Corsican-Sardinian heritage.

He smiled thoughtfully as he walked into the hotel room, looking around. "Is this being paid for by you, James, or MI6? I hear 00-s get all expenses paid for when they go on missions," he said to the British agent sardonically. "Yes, well, they only told me they'd be paying for my game," replied Bond with equal sarcasm.

Mathis smirked. Then he went around and checked for bugs with Bond, in case someone had sneaked in during the night. They found none. "They could still be at the hotel in Royale, Mathis," said Bond. Mathis nodded, taking that into consideration. "Yes, they could have," he said.

"Your car is at the door. Change quickly, pack, then get in and drive the two of us to Royale. My superiors want you there before 22.00 hours." Mathis was quick, straight and to the point with this command. Bond knew better than to ignore it-Mathis was a veteran of the espionage game, and his ranking in the Deuxiéme was the same as a 00-.

Bond did as Mathis told him to, and put on a black long-sleeved Guayabera and the Venetian loafers. Walking out, he saw the Bentley glisten in the French sunlight. The valet gave him his keys and put his bags in the trunk; he practically jumped into the car, and turned on the engine. He heard it rev and he smiled-Bond loved the feel of turning a car on, the vibrations produced, the feeling of power even.

He turned and saw Mathis get in next to him. "I trust you won't drive like you did in Monte Carlo, James," he said sarcastically, fully expecting his younger friend to drive at double the speed limit the way he had in that BMW.

Bond ignored him and drove off, and within an hour they were on one of the Autoroutes, which was not as busy as either of the two had feared. As a result, it took only four hours thirteen minutes to get to Royale-les-Eaux, not including the two stops that had to be made for water or the bathroom.

* * *

Royale-les-Eaux was, in Bond's eyes, the moment he got out of the car, the archetypical French fishing-town. The Hotel Splendide was old, having been built in the middle of the 19th century, and had an air of grandeur around it. The Casino, which Bond could see was near the Hotel, was beautiful, having been constructed in the 1890s, and with a newly-added car park near it, for more customers and to prevent parking on the curb. Everything else looked quaint, pretty and the perfect honeymoon destination.

" _Ah, bonjour Monsieur, comment t'appelle tu_?" asked the manager, tall and thin and dressed in a morning suit with cravat.

" _Je m'appelle James Fleming, Monsieur,_ " replied Bond. He smiled. It paid to speak French fluently and without accent. The concierge looked at him for a half-second before replying, " _Un moment, Monsieur, s'il vous-plait._ " He checked the black leather book in front of him, and found the name. No flicker of curiosity.

"Just sign here, Monsieur, and the bellboy will take your bags up to your room." Bond signed it as 'James Fleming, Port Maria, Jamaica, and was done. The concierge gave him his key and Bond followed the bellboy ( _Algerian, judging by the complexion_ , Bond thought. _He looks quite young though, so he was either here or came as a child, as he spoke perfect French_ ) up to the first floor. In the lift, he spotted a rather too affectionate couple, a man in his mid-forties, a woman in her early thirties, embracing.

"Would you mind telling me who those two in the lift were, s'il vous plait?" Bond asked the bellboy. "Oui, Monsieur. They are the Muntzes. They've been staying here for the past week. Mrs. Muntz isn't feeling too well, according to Mr. Muntz, so she's been staying mostly in her room, which is right above yours, Monsieur." With this answer, Bond nodded. After the bellboy left, he searched the room for bugs, and having found none, he sighed contentedly.

He then went to the bathroom with his cut-throat razor and some shaving cream, and shaved off the stubble he had forgotten to get rid of the day before.


	5. Le Chiffre Reminisces

_August 17, 2001_

 _Afghanistan_

The jeep was being leased to the Al-Qaeda men by the Taliban government, and was transporting several important visitors to the Al-Qaeda organisation. Traversing the dirty and uneven terrain with little difficulty, the jeep reached the compound within two hours of leaving the airport. It was 5.20pm local time.

A foot soldier stepped up to the vehicle and opened the doors. The first person out was a hard-faced, middle-aged man of 52 years old with short hair, dressed in a beige double-breasted suit and black tie, with dark brown quarter-brogues. He was wearing sunglasses to protect his eyes.

The second man was of medium height, dressed in tan slacks with a black collarless shirt covered by an opened grey achkan jacket, and had a beige niqab and hajib around his face and head, both to protect himself from the sun and to hide his identity.

The third man to step out was dressed in a grey double-breasted suit with black shirt and tie. He was 6 feet tall, 18 stone (252 pounds), with a very pale complexion and small feet and brown hair, cut 'en brosse'. In his pocket was a platinum Benzedrine inhaler.

* * *

"Mr. White, Di Yi, Monsieur Le Chiffre," said the foot soldier to each of the three men, before he began walking and showing the visitors where the business deal was to take place.

A man with a long dark beard, white turban and a military vest jacket walked into the room as soon as the three visitors had sat down, carrying a leather briefcase. The three visitors were seated in front of a wooden table, which the man with the briefcase sat down near, opposite where they were.

"Twenty-five million British pounds sterling," said the man, opening the case to reveal £25 million, in £100 notes. Le Chiffre looked at the money with great interest, his eyes widening slightly.

"This money is to be used to purchase weapons and pay our men," explained the man. Mr. White nodded, straightening his tie. The man known as Di Yi simply nodded, saying, "Monsieur Le Chiffre understands. He has taken good care of my organisation's money, and the money of the SODA union in France."

"I will take very good care of this money, but you will not be receiving £25 million back from me when I return it to you in January," said Le Chiffre. The man and his three associates rose from their seats, one of them taking out his Glock, but Di Yi stuck out a hand, saying, "Let him explain."

"As I said a few seconds ago, I will not be giving you £25 million. Rather, you will be getting at least three times that amount. I have a plan to make money for you, myself, my union, and one of my creditors- The Spang brothers, in Las Vegas, Nevada. I owe them $10 million, and I will be repaying $15 million. You will be getting at least £80 million." Le Chiffre took out his inhaler and breathed through it.

"Will this plan of yours be difficult?" asked the man. Le Chiffre shook his head, and after placing his inhaler back in his pocket, said, "No, it is not. But I will need a few of your men, preferably some with flying experience. It will be a no-lose scenario for you and me. You gain money to finance your jihad, I gain some compensation, and most importantly for you, America will be hit badly."

The man's eyes gleamed and he smiled. "Monsieur Le Chiffre, tell me, what is your plan?"

The banker got up and walked towards the man. "Well, Mister bin Laden, it goes like this…"

* * *

 _June 9, 2003_

 _Royale-les-Eaux, France_

Le Chiffre, sitting at the bar at the hotel drinking a Gin Martini, was dressed in a black double-breasted suit with burgundy shirt and black necktie in a Windsor knot.

He was thinking about the time when he had gone to Afghanistan and was given the Al-Qaeda money, with Mr. White and the man known as Di Yi. He had then told Mr. Bin Laden, the client, of his plan to increase the money of the organisation, whilst making some profit for himself and SODA, and hitting America.

"I became overconfident because of 9/11," he muttered to himself. "I thought that I could make money out of anything. But I picked a poor time to set up those whorehouses. I should have gone freelance when the Soviet Union fell."

Another thing he was thinking about: the man known as Di Yi.

He had never seen his face, and his voice was hushed and quiet, so all he could see were the eyes. The black eyes that could see right through your soul, and were like those of Mussolini.

All he had learnt about Di Yi was that he was very, very intelligent, judging by the way he spoke and of how he would explain economics and statistics, and he was powerful-but how powerful, Le Chiffre did not know. Perhaps, he wondered amusedly, he was the head of the Illuminati, that fictional organisation that mad conspiracy theorists talked about all the time on the Internet, without having properly researched the history and meaning behind the word and the original organisation, about how its members wanted democracy in Europe, and how they were wrongfully blamed for the French Revolution and orchestrating the Napoleonic Wars by the Church.

"If he is part of some big organisation, which Mr. White was representing, then I'm screwed if they found out," said Le Chiffre, drinking his Martini. He then called for the bartender, and asked him for some red wine. "What kind of red wine, Monsieur?" asked the bartender. "Any kind that costs less than €50," replied Le Chiffre, and the bartender nodded.

He knew that he shouldn't spend much money-he was preparing for the possibility of having to use his own personal fortune in paying off his massive debt of what was now €42 million.

He knew what was at stake-he had to win, or else they would kill him. Or worse, the governments of the West would grab him.

* * *

 **Reviews are welcome.**

 **AN: Di Yi is the head of SMERSH. Or is he?**


End file.
